WeissKreuz Addiction
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: Yohji likes painting by numbers as long as it involves his favourite model: Aya. His pastime of hoarding colourful snippets of information grows into an addiction as slowly a portrait takes shape... and Yohji finds he's fallen for his subject.
1. Chapter 1 Painting By Numbers

**Addiction**

Fandom: Weisskreuz  
Pairings: Yohji and Aya  
Warnings (all chapters): A bit of swearing and references to sex; boys loving boys.

Summary: Perhaps painting by numbers is not such an unlikely pastime for Yohji as it seems. It grows into an addiction when it slowly reveals a kaleidoscope of colours, and bit by bit, the picture takes shape: Yohji is painting a portrait...

xxx

This one is what it says, painting by numbers to roll out a character. Let me know what you think, folks!

Cheers.

xxx

**Painting By Numbers**

When Aya arrived at the Koneko, the marks of my wire and my fingers on his throat and the scars of betrayal on his soul, we had no idea what he would do to us. We knew nothing, and he would not talk to us, so all we could do was watch him.

Omi joked that I have become addicted to watching Aya. Ken finds it disgusting. "Yohji, you're an idiot." Right. They really should show a tad more respect to their elders, but perhaps it does not matter because slowly, subtly, like colouring a picture, Aya comes to life for me as I try to pick up what makes him tick. When I was little, I used to be good at painting by numbers, picking out details by filling them in with my felt pens, revelling when I could begin to make out shapes, and finally complete my work. I guess some of that carried through into my previous job as a private investigator, and old habits die hard indeed.

If Aya knew that I plan to strip him off his jealously guarded privacy, I'd be toast, but he is obtuse that way, and that suits me fine. I am his stalker. Does that make him my prey? I'd rather not think about this one.

For someone so dour, he has a rather sweet tooth – he will eat a packet of mochi like nothing as long as he thinks no one is watching, and he is partial to pressed, flavoured sugar shapes and all types of candied fruit.

He adores money. He is not economical; he is mean, stingy, tightfisted, an utter and unabashed miser – I swear I've never come across someone like that in my life. Apart from his very occasional sweet treats, he spends hardly anything, hoarding his yen in what we suspected were wads of cash under his futon or wherever.

Back then, none of us had an idea just how expensive medical treatment for someone in a coma would be, that he had borrowed money, was keeping meticulous records of a bank account in his name, and was working to hold his debts at a bearable level. His Porsche, like my Seven, are provided by our paymasters, toys that will come and go like the flowershop for a cover, and the rest of our equipment with the exception of our personal weapons and working gear.

When we realised we were stuck with him, we soon knew that he was not one for light banter. In fact, he refused to let anyone close. We were reduced to figuring him out as we went.

I won't complain, and perhaps Omi is right: watching Aya has become my favourite pastime, beating booze, tobacco and clubbing by quite a few lengths.

**Next chapter: Food**


	2. Chapter 2 Food

**Food **

So I found out that Aya can go on for days eating nothing but rice and perhaps a few steamed greens or pickles. Rarely both: he tries to stretch his resources that far. He will have miso with every meal, diluting the broth so much that it is barely flavoured hot water, and he will eat his rice vinegared or not at all, no matter whether he is starving hard enough for his stomach to rumble.

He has his tea weak and without sugar. It has to be a particular brand, or he won't touch it. Once we returned from a mission, went through our routines, and were about to turn in for the rest of the night, until he found he'd run out of his tea. Dismissing Omi's offer to share, he went out to a twenty-four-hour supermarket to buy some, thinking nothing of driving across half the city to that particular place that would sell this specific type of tea at that time of the night. All that after having murdered half a dozen goons and barely showered off the stench, with police and other folk newly reeling at our latest scene of action.

He hardly ever eats meat, or eggs, or anything with milk in it. He prefers fish, in any form or shape, and some of the seafoody things he puts on his plate on special days I would not touch with a barge pole. I like fast food, and he finds that gross. Soon enough he made it plain that he'd shun our grocery shopping round in favour of buying his own stuff. He is extremely picky. I tried to surprise him one day – only to test his reaction – with some sashimi tuna, bought with the help of Omi's advice from a specialist fishmonger. Cost us a fortune, too, and we were curious. Ken called us stupid, describing small circles with his index finger near his temple.

Aya set the package onto the kitchen counter – on a plate, of course, because he is paranoid about catching any of our germs – peeled back the clingfilm and inspected the piece of loin. "It's ok," he pronounced, with a small twitching of his mouth that I recognised for a conscious effort to smile. He insisted on paying me for the fish. This annoyed me big time, and we had an argument which ended with Omi snatching the money from him and stuffing it into my fist. The chibi was slamming doors after that, and Ken was laughing as they went to open the shop for the afternoon shift.

Aya can be such an ass.

He prefers to eat in his room, but when he deigns to sit down at the table with us on one of those rare evenings when everyone is in, the shop closed and no mission waiting, and we will chat and laugh and make plans for going out later, he will eat in silence, mannerly with his chopsticks and The Bowl. He picked that bowl when he had recovered enough to creep around the house, and claimed the thing as his own ever since. Not that anyone would dispute it – there are a few chipped doorjambs in our house, and we have learned to be wary of Aya's steel-enforced wrath...

He fusses if we leave more than a couple of mugs in the kitchen sink. He will even do the washing up, neatly by hand, instead of using the dishwasher, leaving us cross and embarrassed because he does it purposefully, so we see what he is on about without him having to say a word. He seems to take a peculiar kind of pleasure in making us look like a bunch of foulmouthed, loutish loons. Ken has taken rather ill to the silent disdain Aya radiates, consciously or not. Omi is watching along with me, but at a careful distance and with a coolness I had not known in him before.

Before Aya got caught in my wire, when we fought Crashers down and he stormed at us, ran into our line of fire and came down with my harigane slung around his thin white neck, his gloved fingers tugging frantically to loosen the loop. When he passed out with my fingertips drilling into the soft hollow beneath his adam's apple, we hauled him along on Omi's orders.

Omi has his ways. I suspected something was planned when he asked us to keep Aya at the Koneko until he had recovered. A file with Aya's name appeared the very next day from a folder Omi kept in his room, in a locked filing box. But Omi knows what he is doing, and we – Ken and I – trust him with our lives, mission after mission, day and night because the kid is a genius. I had my own thoughts when, not long after that, he contacted Kritiker to demand they 'take Aya back' – those were his words. Not 'away', not 'rid of'. "I want you to take him back," he fairly yelled through the phone at Manx, "he's fucking up the team, I bloody told you it wouldn't work..." Omi can swear when he's really riled up, and from his pretty mouth it doesn't sound right...

Well, they refused. Aya stayed. Whether we, or he, liked it or not: Ken didn't, neither did Omi, but I was not so sure. I've always been a sucker for a challenge, and this time it happened to have hair dyed a garish crimson and a fighting outfit that send my head spinning. I admit I like good visuals, too, and he is one hell of a picture.

**Next chapter: Clothes**


	3. Chapter 3 Clothes

**Clothes **

He tends to wear a teflon vest underneath his leather gear, and that impossibly tightly tailored leather coat he favours, though it eludes me how he can still move, encased in all those stiff layers. When he goes to train at the dojo not far from our place, he dresses in an odd array of clothes: his sharp coat plus straw sandals and a pair of tame black drawstring trousers. Nothing else. Not even undies – I ran into him in the bathroom where he was about to take a shower after one of his bouts. It brought me out in a cold sweat to think about it, so I tried not to, but I could not resist following him again to see him in action.

Barefoot, in nothing but those wide trousers, with a bamboo sword for practice – the sight knocked me breathless. A sliver of silver and crimson, a splash of darkness, moving forcefully, with deadly precision, the light bouncing off his skin and washing over him in a pale gleam, unceasing movement, no pause, no hesitation, no stalling. Every motion swift, powerful and utterly serious.

No one would spar with him except for the sensei, and even though the old man was a master, the few blows he landed on Aya appeared to be allowed rather than inflicted. I suspected it was this 'keeping face' thing Aya was acting out here. The sensei could not know it was no sport for Aya but his job. He fought without protection, and a few scarlet welts marked his ribcage, but he did not even flinch when he permitted the sensei's bamboo blade to slap home with considerable force. He took the blow, merely gasping, and kept moving, small, firm feet, a short, compact body, lean and muscular arms, hard hands... He had nothing of the light grace of a dancer, or the wooden elegance of a Noh-actor. He was fast, strong, and deadly, with an edge of contained brutality.

He spent hours repeating the same sequence of motions, honing them, glaring at his image in the wall of mirrors on one side of the dojo as though reprimanding himself for the tiniest imperfection. Sweat was dripping from his nose and flying in little sprays off his face as he stepped through his katas at lightning speed, with not the slightest sign of getting tired. I wondered whether I could outwait him, see him tire and finish. I decided to leave when I caught myself napping, my cheek against the post that held the lattice between the floor and the outer gallery where I sat so he could not see and skewer me for intruding on him like this. He turned up at the Koneko after more than six hours on the practice floor, and I suspected he only left because the dojo had closed for the evening.

Well, we all have our hobbies.

**Next chapter: Scent**


	4. Chapter 4 Scent

**Scent **

His room is so spartan that it would be grim were it not for a shelf with books and writing utensils, and in a corner by the window, a small tray on legs that serves for an altar. Beyond that, he has a futon that he covers in crisp white sheets, complete with a small box pillow, tatami mats on the floor of woodplanks that he keeps meticulously clean, and a pitcher and bowl on a low wicker sideboard under the window. A canvas nightstand by his bedside and bamboo blinds against the window complete the furnishings. His room is a medley of muted shades of beige, brown, cream and white, with the scented pale green of the tatamis underfoot.

Scent. Clean and warm. His room breathes the aroma of a calm, blue autumn day on the shaded banks of a river: reeds, wood, a hint of pine needles and floor polish, and a whiff of stale incense. Aya's clothes smell of leather, sweat and blood. His skin... on one of the missions we worked together and found ourselves hiding, waiting for Omi's signal. We crouched, squashed between two rows of wooden crates, me behind Aya, both of us leaning forward to peer through the gap between the crates. He was squatting, ready to jump, his gloved hands clutching the katana with no room to manoeuvre; I was down on one knee, the wire coiled between my fingers, with Aya propping me up.

I could feel his back pressing against my chest, with a slight creaking of leather in the rhythm of his breathing, and I could smell him: steel, heat, warm leather. Laced with pine and sandal in a mixture so heady it made me dizzy. I put my hand on his shoulder to lean in a bit more, he did not even object – too focused, I thought, way too focused, Fuji – and my cheek touched his hair as I looked over his shoulder. It felt wiry and smooth; it smelled a bit of dye, cologne and the tiniest hint of sweat. I felt a pang of regret that I wore working gloves. I would have liked to touch his skin, wondering whether it would feel warm or cool, dry or damp. It looked smooth and almost transparent, with the veins shimmering pale blue on white.

I shifted my balance some more until I pressed down on him and he had to bear my full weight, and though he shifted in slight discomfort, he was too distracted to realise... I could not resist, my lips touched the shell of his left ear, just above the dangly earring he wears. "Careful," I whispered, in a stupid pretense that warning him was all I wanted.

A small shiver ran through him, I saw goosebumps appear on his white neck, and then he nearly floored me with a sharp elbow right into my stomach. Fast. Hard. Without warning, and without comment. Omi's command came through the earpiece before I had stopped gagging and gasping, and we were off after our target.

He never picked up on this incident.

He does get drunk now and then. Very now and then. The first time we realised he was pissed, he turned up in the kitchen to get his dinner rice, filled his bowl, sloshed vinegar into the dish, and marched out again, without even acknowledging the rest of us who were sitting at the table and eating our dinner.

It would have been fairly normal had he worn more than a loincloth around his hips. A very low-slung, impeccably white scrap of cotton that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Omi's eyes went as round as saucers, Ken forgot to close his mouth, hand with a spoonful of vanilla ice cream hovering mid-air, and I... well, I choked on my burger, had to leave it and get a drink of sake and a smoke to stop spluttering.

Aya does not smoke, and I suspect it has something to do with money. Though he is not above the odd snide remark about us catching some kind of cancer or another. He won't buy papers or magazines but will religiously watch the news on the television, or listen to them on the radio in the mission room. He washes his linens and towels without softener so that they are like board when he collects them from the drying line on the roof of the Koneko, and while our stuff in the bathroom is a jumble of small things in bowls and boxes, his is neatly set aside in a wicker box atop the mirrored cabinet opposite the loo: shaving kit, washcloth, a small bar of hand-made soap, baking soda toothpaste, beaker and brush. No coins, keys, condoms, or other bric-a-brac, let alone lint. He does not need to warn anyone or tell us it's his, the stuff and the way it is kept has Aya branded all over it.

Not that he would need condoms: I have never seen him going out.

**Next chapter: Moods**


	5. Chapter 5 Moods

**Moods **

He hates to talk, and loathes being talked at. He will be professional in the shop, but Omi prefers him to work in the back, doing the arrangements or deliveries, while one of us works the till and deals with the customers. Aya appears to be content with this. He is good at arranging flowers – when he is in the mood – and has taste and skills, and from what I see, knows his ikebana stuff.

He has moods. They usually won't show in his face that tends to be cool and unmoved, but in his actions: the way he treats things and people. He freely takes his irritation out on others, most often with the silent treatment, or by being hissy, and only when he is pushed will he explode in a nasty bout of temper, usually yelling and violently throwing things about. We learned soon enough that when his moods do show on his face, it is better to walk away quietly and hide, especially when he has his damn big knife close. Yeah, he really can be an ass.

He knows colours: black, black, red, and more black. Except for his orange sweater, it's all he ever wears. Purple, by a stretch, if I count his contacts. And he won't buy new clothes. We realised pretty late that, perhaps, this had nothing to do with him being fashion blind or stingy: he was mourning. Besides, the dark rags won't show blood stains, and I have to remind myself that he does not go out clubbing or anything like that. Not even to the pictures.

Aya has never stopped grieving.

Sometimes he'll buy a few bottles of good sake to get drunk, and downs it in the confines of his bedroom, alone, sitting crosslegged on his futon with some blood-curdling flute tunes looping on the CD-player. It would shove anyone into bleak depression. I checked the dates when he does it: unsurprisingly, they coincide with days that must remind him of the events that tore his life apart.

I think I can understand that.

**Next chapter: Laundry**


	6. Chapter 6 Laundry

**Laundry **

He tends to do his own laundry. When we wash – whoever loses his nerve first, or runs out of stuff to wear will do it – we have a big pile on and around the washing machine in the garage. The pile gets pried apart, whites and colours, and that's as much sorting as we'll do before chucking it all into the machine. It's usually me doing it; the chibis borrow my rags or just keep buying more clothes. Their wardrobes are bursting, and mostly I will have at least half a dozen loads. One day we will buy an industrial sized machine, Omi promised, like they use at the laundrette two blocks down the street. Right now, Kritiker won't give us the money, I can't see why I should use my own funds that I prefer to spend elsewhere, and the chibis can't see anything wrong with the way things are. Therefore, they refuse to chip in. Damn their stingy little asses, I am not their mother after all.

Ken wants me to use the dryer for his clothes, so does Omi, while I like to hang my stuff up on the line so it can soak up the aroma of rain and sun while it dries. Aya ran into me the other day; I could not see him over an armful of stuff, and he was in a hurry to get to the garage and didn't pay proper attention when rounding the corner from the hall. So he bumped into the pile of clothes, then into me, and I let the bunched rags drop and grabbed his upper arms to balance him and me.

He looked pretty – a blaze of colours in his orange sweater and black drawstrings, with bare feet and ruffled crimson hair, but he gave me one of those glares, which I think are most efficient because of his contacts. His cheeks blushed the faintest shade of pink as he opened his mouth as though he would scold or sneer. As it was, he did neither but snapped his mouth shut, tugged against my grip, and I saw that he was pressing a small, wrapped bundle to his stomach. "Laundry, Aya? I'll do your stuff with ours, if you like," I offered, spotting a sock dangling out of the black wrapping cloth.

He scowled and hugged his bundle tighter. "No thanks." And off he was, leaving me to pick up the scattered clothes. I had a hangover, and by the time I was done and turned up in the garage, I saw him kneeling, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his elbows, his hair not only dishevelled but wet, strands of crimson plastered to his temples and neck. He was hunched over a green plastic wash tub and beating the hell out of his rags with a cudgel.

I hardly believed my eyes. "Man, Aya, we live in the twentieth century," I said lighly as I dumped my load by the machine, "it's no hardship for me to wash your bits as well, yanno." But he would not even look up but kept scrubbing, a cardboard box of soap flakes his only aid. I might as well have talked to the wall. While I loaded our washing machine, he spent some time and frantic activity on rinsing his stuff. Even this he did with a ferocity that made me wonder why those clothes did not tear while he was squeezing the water out of them. Flap, flap, beat, wring, muscles straining under white skin, pearled with water, shimmering like silk, his back rounding and straightening as he bent over the tub and fished out garment after garment.

I suppose I was gaping, but I don't think he noticed. When he was done, pants and sweater soaking, he gathered it all up, soggy as it was. He hugged it against his belly as before, kicked the tub over to slosh the water into the drain, shoved it against the wall where it could dry out, and all but ran from the room. I am not sure whether he took objection to my attire – when I do the washing, I wash everything except a pair of briefs to cover my ass, which I keep on not for my own sake, but out of consideration for whoever happens on me when I'm busy. So that's all I wore, plus a cigarette. I could have sworn he was blushing up to his dyed hair-roots when he dashed through the door.

So he does his own cooking, his own laundry, his own everything. Making a statement, unmistakable and cranky: I do not want you, I do not need anyone, faff off. The busy equivalent of a dirty finger, poked right into our faces.

No one gives me that sorta shit. I either hit or walk away from people like that. But here we had a special case 'cos neither was an option. Aya was part of our team, like it or not, or – as Ken put it – for better or for worse, and worse was the likely outcome. Ken tends to be pessimistic, and he hasn't forgiven Aya's attempt at vivisectioning him. Me, on the other hand, I prefer to look at the bright side, and I don't like to be treated rudely, or to be brushed off when I'm trying to be courteous. So Aya's butt was on the line, and he didn't even know it.

When I went up to the roof to hang up my clothes that were spun and only a little damp while Omi's and Ken's things rumbled away in the tumble dryer, I found most of my drying line occupied. So I learned that Aya wears plain black cotton briefs, and thick black wool socks in his work boots, that he pegs them on the line religiously matched and even colour-coordinates the plastic pegs.

It was then that I realised for the first time that he cannot help it. He is anal. It's the same thing that makes him sit crosslegged by the side of his bedroom door when he hones his katana, swish-swish with grinding paste and a cloth, the blade across his lap, ready to strike at whoever ventures in, or to bolt if that should be more sensible. He almost cut Omi the other day when the chibi wanted to call him down for dinner – Omi never gives up, even though the answer is always the same.

**Next chapter: Sex**


	7. Chapter 7 Sex, Not Quite

**Sex (Not Quite)**

Yesterday, I caught the chibi smoking, in deep, nervy pulls, in the small yard behind the shop where we keep the incinerator and the rubbish bins. Usually, Omi will sneek into the greenhouse, or when he feels particularly reckless, even smoke in the workshop, and try to hide the fag when I'm around. This time, he only gave me a gloomy glance from beneath tumbled blond bangs and stayed put on the binbag with rubbish he sat on.

"Hey, whassup chibi?" I asked him, with a frown at the cigarette. He took another drag and exhaled with an almost-sigh. He was on shift with Aya that day, because I had a date, and to place Ken and Aya together meant asking for trouble.

"I'm not gonna smoke in there anymore, and I can forget 'bout givin' up now," he groaned, shifting uneasily on the rustling bag.

"Oh?" I sat down beside him, my back against the sun-warmed wall, and lit up.

"Man, Yohji, I thought I could handle him..." Another puff of smoke, angry and sharp, through nose and mouth at the same time like a huffing dragon, and his blue eyes glittered edgily. I knew he missed Ken, they tended to banter throughout their shift and natter about anything of interest to chibis, and they enjoyed the attention of the girls that flooded our shop every lunchtime and after school. Aya does not do banter, he thinks nothing of spending an entire shift in utter silence, and he dislikes dealing with customers.

Here was a chance, and before I knew it, my mouth ran ahead of my brains. "If you want, I'll take the shifts with him."

Omi did not risk the possibility of me changing my mind. "Oh, Yohji-kun, I so hoped you'd say that!" Before I could take another breath, he jumped me, gave me a bear hug and ran off, back into the shop, the cigarette forgotten and smouldering on the ground. My offer meant I had to cancel my date, because the chibi had taken my word literally, and was gone for the rest of the afternoon. I've never seen Omi run like this.

So that's how I came to have all my shifts with Aya.  
Who makes us all itch, puts us on edge simply by being here.

Because we now know with certainty that we are a shambles, a sorry heap of deranged, messy slobs, drunkards and sluts... even if he does not say it. He has his ways of letting us know.

And there's something I haven't found out yet: I wonder what he does with himself when he gets hot. I know he does 'cos I saw him the other day, leaning into the corner of the shower, and hell hath me if he wasn't hard and trying to ignore it while the water steamed all over his white hide.

Perhaps he even fucks himself with that damn sword of his.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Stillness

(I had planned to title it 'Relief', but it seemed to fit better this way. I hope you won't be disappointed – let me know what you think, please. Thanks.)


	8. Chapter 8 Stillness

**Stillness **

(Follows 'Finding Stillness' in the timeline of my WK stories, but here it is written to work on its own.)

I decided to add a few explanatory notes - hope they make sense, and that you'll have fun reading. Thanks to those of you who listed this story among their favs and/or author alerts – you know who you are! Thank you.

**xxx**

Aya has been acting weird recently.

Well, weirder than usual, anyway. How about collecting me from the park (1) where I had gone after a night of heavy boozing and, well, other things... I only wanted to view the cherry blossoms, like I did with Asuka on that day that keeps replaying itself in the theatre of my memories, an endless loop of pain. Aya came to get me when I was lying on the grass that had rainbow colours, and my side and my head hurt from being knocked about and I did not know why because all I saw was snow in summer... cherry petals sailing from a too-blue sky...

Omi told me later that redhead kept resolutely schtum about what really happened back there, but I have some vague idea... a run in with a bunch of youngsters 'cos one of the girls looked so much like her... like Asuka; I had to look, and perhaps I stared a bit too hard 'cos one of the lads didn't like it. So that would explain a cracked rib and a few nasty welts and bruises. Aya collected me and did not even give me a dressing down for what had happened. Neither would he tell me how I got – clean, naked, and smelling of shampoo – into my bed. Or why my sheets held the faintest trace of his scent when I finally came round the next afternoon.

He puzzled me no end because the only explanation that made sense was plain wrong. So wrong, I did not even ask though I was dying to know.

And then he pulled me back from the ledge of the roof when I was dancing there, perhaps a bit stoned and wobbly with sake, imagining it was her embracing me, swaying slowly to the song that held the essence of our silly little dreams when it was only me, hugging myself, and then Aya's harsh grip around my shoulders.

He dragged me back and scolded. Silly little Aya. So cold, so frosty, and so afraid of warmth. But our shifts together became easier 'cos he wanted to know... things. He was hurting, I knew that much. He was longing, too, but I did not know for what. Hurting and longing. Like me. Like all of us. He was human after all.

Somehow, that put me at ease with him.  
Me at ease with him meant Omi relaxed a bit, and subsequently, Ken with him.  
The air at the Koneko became breathable again.

And Aya kept dropping small hints. Struggling through a losing battle against embarassment and his notion of decency. Losing against his growing desire to belong, to feel, to love again, overlooking how natural it should have been to want for just these things.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that we all were still so young...

I think I knew what he wanted me to do when I found the orchid in my room. A white orchid, in a black vase. He had omitted the ikebana element for heaven (2)in this stark arrangement – such as us know no heaven, no hope, no future, he was telling me without words. We are grounded in the blackest night, rooted in sin, bearing our cross – and the white flower joined him and me, him in his knowing innocence (3), and me, the exot, the outsider (4) who belonged nowhere and had nowhere to go. Yet he wanted me because I live my life, no matter what. He wanted me because he saw me as experienced. He felt safe asking me for this.

I did not know what to do. A strange stillness settled between us, for he felt he had said everything there was to say, and I had no idea how to respond. He was pretty. He was beautiful. But I could feel... darkness within. Fire beneath the ice. Searing. Hatred. So much hatred, caged, focused, consuming him... with no room for anything else. Ready to burn the world should this fire tear free.

I was not sure I wanted to get hurt like that.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Closer

**Notes:  
**1) See my story 'Finding Stillness' for a more in depth version of the events  
2) formal arrangements should include elements symbolising heaven, man/kind, and earth  
3) Aya states at some point that he slept with a woman at age 16, but he is sexually innocent of men  
4) orchids, Yohji's image flowers, are not native to Japan; he is half-Japanese, half American (?)


	9. Chapter 9 Closer

**Closer **

So we worked our shifts, and barely talked – usually, I had my hands full with the children who came to admire Aya's raw beauty and beg flowers of me at discount prices to suit their pocket money. I liked it. They cheered me up, all those hopeful eyes and smiles, shy and happy, or brazen and glowing, looking for their first taste of love. Aya could be rather abrasive, and I felt sorry for them – what did they know of our darkness? They deserved a bit of sunshine. The flavour of life and happiness, for who knew what the future held for them?

We should know. We who had no future. We who stole the future from others.  
But Aya did not want to understand.

And one day, I snapped when we were ready to lock up for the evening and I closed the door behind a sobbing girl who clutched a potted rose to her chest. "Man, Aya, can't you the fuck ease up a bit? You didn't have to tell her that we're no charity, and your tone, hell, like you were at the pinnacle of formality – we're a flower shop, not some boardroom!"

He misted the flowers in the window display and lowered the flimsy inner blinds, before turning and nailing me with a blank stare. "And what's wrong with keeping some manners?"

"Nothing, but did you know she was buying the flowers for her brother who's sick?"

He paled a bit, his white skin taking on an ashen hue, and carefully set down the mister. "Iie," he said quietly.

"Thought so." I began to tot up the register. Aya stood still, watching me with an odd expression that made me feel uncomfortably scrutinised. So I flashed him a smile. "I told her you're an old crank, and gave her the pot for free."

He is predictable. "You should not-"

"I felt sorry for her. And for you." I knew that would get to him. He is so intent on proving how tough he is, and he hates kindness 'cos to him, it's the same as weakness.

"I do not need your pity," he spat, badly rattled, and turned to let the outside metal blinds crash down. The shop was plunged into darkness, and I knocked the tray with coins and bills off the counter.

"Hey! Now I gotta start counting the lot again," I protested, a moment before he flicked the light on.

He stood by the door and gave me a glare that looked a little owlish and the tiniest bit lost. "I apologise. I should help you..."

I knelt and began to scoop up the money that lay scattered over the floor. My hands full with bills, I shook my head. "Nah, is ok. You're just so damn jumpy, Ayan. You don't allow yourself any breathers. No pleasures, no easing up... everyone needs a break sometimes, yanno."

He began to untie his apron. "You make up for me in that department," he replied quietly as he walked across to hang the thing on the peg by the backdoor.

It hit me like a blow to the stomach, and that got me angry. He was being mean, and I shouldn't have given a fig about it, but- "You got a problem with that?" I said as I got up and sorted the money back onto the tray.

He shrugged and turned away. "Should I?" He paused for a moment by the door, then nodded at the register. "I would not mind-"

"No, I'm fine," I retorted, because I was cross, he now made me nervous and uneasy, and I would finish much quicker without him distracting me. I knew it would take me longer than him – he is a natural when dealing with money matters – but I have my pride too. I am blond, not dumb.

He shrugged and left without gracing me with a reply, his firm, fast steps fading in the hallway.

I needed a cigarette.

**xxx**

"Where is he?" I asked Omi and Ken when Aya did not turn up for dinner.

They exchanged a meaningful glance, before Ken bent over his bowl of ramen again, and Omi gave me his most brilliant, most false chibi smile. "In his room. Would you like to take him some food? Before it's all gone."

I ruffled his hair. "Stop that. He wouldn't have it-"

"Hai, 'cos he'd think we'd poison him," Ken jabbed in, and I nodded, though that was not what I had meant. Aya was too proud to accept someone getting him his food and too prissy about what he ate. They should have gathered that by now.

Still, I could see no point breaking their easy mood, so I said, "Yeah, and in your case, he might be right. Besides, his bowl isn't on the shelf, that means he's taken some already."

Omi dropped his silly grin and made a pout. The boy really knows how to pull all registers; he can look so damn innocent that it would fool anyone, but when he plays around with this sort of face, he worries me. "Yohji, you're a spoilsport."

"Yeah, is my job."

Ken grinned into his bowl and rolled his eyes. "Not you too," he mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.

I chose to ignore that, wedged a cigarette between my lips and picked through the dirty dishes in the sink for something I could use as an ashtray, when a thought occurred to me. "But he hasn't had tea yet, has he?"

Ken choked on a spoonful of broth, spluttered and flushed the nicest shade of crimson. Omi kindly patted his back. "Now, now, Kenken... man, Yohji, if you can manage to make tea he'll actually drink, I'll eat my shorts."

I winked at him. "I'd like to see that."

Omi stopped patting Ken and instead began to rub soothing circles on his back. "Bet?"

Ken tried to clear his throat and gleamed from Omi to me and back from beneath brown bangs. I could see him smile broadly, and it annoyed me that this smile said, _Kudoh you're stupid... _Omi tends to win any bet and any game. It is annoying, really. "Hai, betcha, chibi." That would have been my runaway tongue plus a helping of jarred pride, both well ahead of my brains.

"What do we get when you lose?" Ken chipped in, and Omi gave me a confirming grin while he kept coddling his boyfriend.

I filled the kettle and switched it on. "We? As in the pair of you? And watcha mean, 'when'? IF I lose..." I scratched my head. "Hm, lemme think..." I needed to be careful what I offered, or they'd have my butt.

"Will you kiss us, Yohji?" Omi chirped, all blue-eyed innocence and wicked smirk, and Ken nearly had another coughing fit, but Omi yanked him close and hugged him against his narrow chest so that he had to fight for air instead. He still found time to leer.

"The heck," I growled and turned to watch the kettle, "behave yourselves."

"Well, will you?" Ken seconded, a bit breathless now, his voice muffled against Omi's tee no doubt. "We're legal, yanno."

"No!" Kettle boiled, take mug – not any old mug but Aya's mug – plonk in teabag and fill up water. Tea in bags was as much of a concession as Aya would make to modern life; on festival days he would brew it the traditional way, in a kind of highly private mini tea ceremony, conducted in the altar corner of his room where he kept the utensils in a cardboard box. I knew because I had watched him through the keyhole of his door.

"You know he takes sugar," Ken goaded.

"He does not," I snapped over my shoulder, "now stop it."

"Oh," Omi said, in a tone of deepest disappointment. "I really thought..."

"You shouldn't be gambling," I broke in while swirling the teabag about a bit, trying to remember whether the tea should be weak or strong "Betting is gambling." It looked too watery, so I squeezed the teabag hard before tossing it into the bin.

"We can't help it," Ken piped up, "it's all down to influence. Leading by example, yanno."

"Oh? So, Omitchi, tell me 'bout examples," I said at the barely suppressed laughter in Ken's voice. It made me smile. They could still laugh. They could still play and have fun. They still had hopes and dreams and perhaps even a future to live for, and this eased the pressure that had settled in my chest this afternoon, after the argument with Aya.

"What, me? You're the eldest here," Omi countered smugly. "All we know we learned from you, Yohji-kun."

Indeed... I heaved a stage sigh and turned, mug in hand. "Right. I refuse to be held liable, but you can have a couple of my magazines IF I lose."

Omi pushed out his lower lip. Ken buried his face at Omi's chest and shook with laughter.

"We've seen them all," Omi sulked, combing his small, thin fingers through Ken's hair.

"Tough," I said, "but you will have to eat your shorts anyway when I come back down here."

Omi leisurely laced his hand through thick brown stands. "Yeah, yeah." Blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "But really, Yotan, we didn't think you'd chicken out of a kiss that quickly. Are you scared of us?"

I looked from one to the other, Ken cradled in Omi's arms and still puffed up with barely contained mirth, hazel eyes sparkling brightly; Omi with a sly look on his soft face and a way too sultry smile on his lips. Gods, they really should not know about these things, at least not the way they did. "Hell, yeah," I told them, "you'd scare anyone shitless."

"So we really can't convince you?" Omi prodded sweetly, enjoying the teasing entirely too much.

Ken tugged free and grabbed his upper arm. "Hey," he said, a slight scowl darkening his eyes.

Omi leaned against him. "Just joking, Kenken. Really, you know that."

Well, I thought it better to get out of the kitchen while I still could.

**xxx**

"Aya?" The mug was hot, steam curling softly into the air. I knocked cautiously at Aya's bedroom door. His inner sanctum. His private space that might as well have been located on another planet for all we had seen of it so far.

No answer, but I could hear the soft, cool swish-swish of him polishing his sword. Close to the door. Long, regular motions... I could imagine him sitting on the floor, the blade across his lap, muscles playing subtly under white skin as he bent and straightened, his arms stretching out, pulling closer again, evenly, smoothly, with the same singleminded purpose he applied to everything he did. But why did I picture him with bare arms?

"Aya?" I kocked a bit firmer. The hot ceramic began to scald my knuckles. "I know you're in, so open up now, will ya?" I meant to get ready to go out that evening, and he was wasting my time. "Oh, fuck it," I said, beginning to feel pissed off and wondering why I had bothered in the first place, but the moment I turned away, the door swung open with a flourish, and Aya stood there.

Some things we will always remember, no matter what happens to us in life. Some of those memories we'd rather forget, others we cherish to the day we die.

It was one of those, and I could not help but stare. At his trim form, wrapped primly into a dark grey yukata, his hair a red halo against the mellow light that flowed through the open window, his bare feet. Small, firm feet with dainty toes and fine, hard ankles. Incredibly white beneath the dark hem of his garment and against the pale green tatami.

"What is it?" he snapped.

I tore my gaze from his feet and held the mug out to him. He spared it a glance, then looked back at me. "It's too strong."

Well, I lost. The chibis would not let me live this down in a while. "You ever happy with anything, Ayan?" I grouched as I prepared to leave. I had a date, she was pretty, looked a bit like Asuka, had met her in one of the bars downtown... They always look a bit like Asuka.

"I'll have it anyway," Aya said, reaching for the mug. He hesitated a little, and then, with a clear effort, he said, "Would you like to come in for a moment?"

I started down the hallway to my place before his words sank in and I stopped. "What?"

He still stood in the door, the mug in one hand, a rag in the other. He frowned. "I said, would you care to come in... for a moment?" And he stepped aside just enough to make room for me to pass by him, a tiny motion that was Aya's equivalent to banging a big gong and yelling out an invitation across the street.

I must have looked a bit off because he began to glare, quite probably annoyed with himself; now I had to decide whether to rush off so I could primp properly before going out, or spend a moment... one special, rare, incredibly surreal moment... in his room.

With him.  
Alone.

He shrugged, opened his mouth, and before he could withdraw his offer, I stalked back and past him into his room.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Bolder


	10. Chapter 10 Bolder

**Bolder **

His room was still, the sounds of the busy street no more than a distant murmur. It was as though he had willed them to subside because the single glass pane and the flimsy bamboo blind against his window could not possibly muffle them that much.

His room that was forbidden to us unless we managed to sneak in to snoop around a bit – Ken is good at picking locks, and I managed to convince him to help me in my investigation a while ago. Innate curiosity is a good thing for a professional snoop, and as compulsory as pickpocketing or shoplifting. So that's how I knew his room before he officially allowed me to set foot into his realm.

I liked the scent. I liked the way the light turned soft as it flowed in pale swathes over the tatami floor, and the sparseness and the cleanliness that seemed to tell so much about him, more than he would ever give away willingly. From the closed expression on his face I couldn't guess whether he was aware of this. Whether he'd made a conscious decision to let me in. It bothered me not to know.

By the door, on a stained white cotton cloth, lay his sword, next to a jar of grinding paste. He pulled the door shut and sat down on the floor, crosslegged, coyly holding his yukata shut over his groin, his back to the wall. He gripped the blade with his rag-bolstered hand and placed cloth and steel across his lap so he could resume his work.

I was a bit lost, so I sat down by his side and watched. He dipped the bunched up rag into the jar to scoop out a glob of the off-white stuff. Slow, hard, even motion, spreading the paste thinly on the cold greyblue metal, the dark sleeve of his yukata rustling softly as it brushed over his lap, following the sweep of his hand. I could see his nails and knuckles whiten as he pressed down on the steel, and the muscles of his underarm strain, relax, strain, relax... His wrist, sharp bone under white skin, staying perfectly straight.

Perfection. My addiction to perfection made flesh.

"You may smoke if you like," he said, casually, and caught me completely off guard.

"Huh?"

He blew a few tendrils of hair out of his face and gleamed at me sideways without interrupting his work. He could easily cut himself like that. "Smoke, Kudoh. S, M, O-"

"Gotcha, Ayan," I said, nervous and amused all the same. I could not help watching, afraid he might slice into his hand, ready to yank his injured fingers away and kiss off the blood... almost wishing... gods, what was I thinking? Now where did I have my fags?

He focused on the sword again, flipping it so he could treat the other side of the blade. "What's funny?"

Am I that transparent? "Don't have any smokes on me. Coulda sworn-"

"You left a packet in your apron."

No way I would go now to get them. "Oh, well... Ayan, why d'you ask me in?"

Swish, swish, gloop, more paste, swish... Hiding behind red bangs, nails white, posture tight, shoulders up, back straight, so very straight, so neat, so fussy.

"Aya?"

"I meant to ask you something." He did not stop working. He may be singleminded in his goals, but he can very well concentrate on more than one task at hand. Like talking to me in this level tone that betrays very little emotion, and honing his razor sharp blade to flawless precision. Perfect, perfect, Aya is all about this insane drive for total perfection, he can't do less, it kills him not to be perfect.

"Fire away," I said, groping around in my jeans pockets in the vague hope I might have missed one containing cigarettes. I had to lift my bum off the floor a little to get at the rear pocket, and yes, he was shooting me a glance that landed squarely where it made me all hot and bothered before he broke away to examine his handiwork.

"What is wrong with me?"

I know I froze, yet again, while he placed the lid on the jar, wiped down the sword and sheathed the damn thing. Breast pocket, it shot through my brain; so I touched there, found a packet of fags, plus lighter, and lit up with a groan of relief. Should have looked there first, but him eyeing my groin was worth looking stupid right then.

He folded the cloth that had protected his yukata from getting stained and set it aside, along with the jar. Then he rose and tossed the slashed, dirty polishing rag into the bin he kept by the door, and went to tuck his katana under the edge of his futon, on the side where he slept.

I watched, as I had been watching him from the day we met him, fighting like hell, with reckless abandon until my wire brought him down.

Aya, bound, arching against me as he sank to his knees.  
His eyes full of hate and sorrow.  
So much loathing.  
So much sorrow.

On his knees, beautiful, head thrown back, gloved fingers hooked into the loops of steel to prevent them from slicing his throat, this pretty, bony white throat. His body taut against mine, radiating heat and energy, a mad resistance until my thumbs pressed the breath out of him and he sagged into my embrace. No boneless collapsing, but an agonised melting away of strength as his lips flushed blue, his tongue crept out between his teeth, and his eyes bulged. Strangling himself while still trying to fight.

He could not stop fighting. Even in the intimacy of my killing embrace, a flick of my hands away from being garrotted.  
Omi yelled at me to stop just before my reflexes kicked in.  
It always chills me to remember this.

I had no idea what an exotic bird I had caught in my snare. A broken, sad, frightened bird.

"Yohji?" He crossed the room with a few steps and kneeled by my side, settling his hands on his thighs. His firm, white fingers relaxed on the dark fabric. His right wrist a little smudged with grinding paste. Imagine to kiss it off, how would he taste? Of salt and steel, perhaps. Of his soap. Of a hot summer day on the banks of a river. Of warm mud and reeds, blood and death. Of life and love. Of sex.

He had told me he wanted to know.

My breath grew too hot for my lungs. He was too close for comfort. I blew a long stream of smoke through my nose and shrugged. "What's wrong with you, huh?"

"Hai."

"Why ask me? There's so much wrong with me, how could I know what's it with you?"

"I cannot ask anyone else." He had me there. Aya logic, unshakeable. It should help him with the chibi – Omi is a sucker for logic, and he never fails at it. "So tell me."

"Dunno."

"Yohji."

"Hm." More smoke. It helps me think, or fog up, or hide out. Whatever.

"You owe me." Never slow to call in a favour, Aya. (1)

"Perhaps there's nothing wrong at all. It's us who're all screwed up, right?" I did not mean to be nasty, it slipped out before I could think, he'd mushed my brains alright, and I tried to remember why I wanted to go out that night – ah, the girl who looked like Asuka. Some dancing, some booze, a good lay perhaps, and my world would be just fine, so why did he make me so damn edgy?

"Yohji, I am trying," he said quietly, his eyes steadily on me, probing, weighing, considering my worth. Trying whether I was worth trusting, worth the tiny bit of closeness he had allowed to grow between us during those last few months, worth anything.

I knew I wanted to be worth something, even though he was an ass sometimes. Silly, stuck up, lost and broken. Trying so hard to keep a hold over himself that he nearly crushed his own soul in the process. "You'll have to relax a bit," was the best I could come up with, now that I had the distinct feeling that it really mattered.

A one off moment. Make or break. No wind-back, no cut-outs allowed. He had opened a small door for me. For me! I did not want it slammed into my face, and all I could think of was something downtrodden and shallow.

"Explain," he demanded, his right hand lifting a little and resettling on his thigh. Keeping the door open still. Wellshaped muscle beneath dark, crisply starched fabric that looked as though it was newly bought though I had seen this yukata on him before. Once, ages ago, and I wondered what he wore underneath.

Smoke. I wished this was a joint instead of an ordinary nicotine fix. "Well, you could join us a bit more often," I fumbled, "ease up, get sloshed, that sorta thing. Be a bit less stiff, yanno?"

He considered that. He is too controlled, unless irked beyond endurance, and then he'll let his temper rip. Rarely. It is possible to see it brew, rise and boil over – in a way, his lack of spontaneity is fair on us 'cos it gives us time to run and hide should we be the cause of his ire.

I watched him and could see something shift in his eyes, his gaze home in on mine, holding me just so: he could have pinned me to the door with his katana and it would have been the same. Needled like a moth that had come entirely too close to the flame, been singed and caught.

Perhaps it was too late anyway to run. I could sense the fire beneath the ice, and I was hooked. That moment of silence, in his room, with his eyes expectant and sharp on me, it rushed at me like a train, and took me clean under. A challenge, better than any drug I knew. I am a sucker for challenges.

"Less stiff?" He paused again, his hands coming together, fingers linking, holding on to one another. Aya trying to hold on to himself. "So I am too... conventional?"

I shook my head, vaguely amused that he should deem himself conventional. "Ah, not quite, Ayan. More like unbending, hidebound, rigid, obstinate, inflexible – that sorta thing."

He swallowed hard, his gaze drifting to his hands. "I see. Tell me, Yohji, why should I cast away everything I learned?" He spoke quietly, his face blank, but his tone so tense as though it would shatter any moment. I winced. A thousand splinters of Aya's soul. "I thought... I tried to hold on to those things I was brought up to value. Things that made me. Now they're drifting away from me, and I suppose that is the way it should be. That is what you mean, by easing up, isn't it?"

Again, not quite, but... "Which things, Ayan?" Though I knew.

He looked up at me as though gauging his response, before he said carefully, "Simple things. How to eat. How to be polite. How to try to respect those you live with... as... as..." He trailed off and suddenly turned away, his head dipping against the wall against which I was leaning, his eyes hidden behind red bangs.

"As a family?" I ventured, a queasy sensation beginning to settle in my stomach.

He snorted softly. "I just meant to keep out of your hair. Didn't want to force my ways on anyone. I know you all think I'm an asshole. That's ok." He leaned forward, pulling up one leg to wrap his arms around it. To think what the yukata would bare should it slip just by an inch or so... "I don't mind, really, 'cos it doesn't matter."

Ouch.

"It's only that..." He rested his forehead against his raised knee, hair falling over his hands, crimson on white, blood on skin, the cross we bear within. "Sometimes I'd like to know more about... those things..."

"Like, how it is to be in love?" I ventured.

"Tell me about it, Yohji. How is it? How was it for you with her?"

A quick drag at the cigarette, so deep it made my lungs ache and my eyes water as I let my head thud back against the wall.

"Yohji?"

Forgot that he's got no idea how it is. How young we were, and how old already. Perhaps we'd all died already and just not realised... He never knew how love feels. He might never find out. No, don't look up now, Aya, fuck, now I am not... I am not...

He leaned in, close, warm, his hard thumb stroking over my cheekbone. My eyes closing, catching this incredulous expression on his face, before he withdrew his hand and stilled; I could feel him freeze, right there, next to me, I could sense the shock and the anger and...

"Ah," he breathed, with an air of realisation.

I hate meaningful pauses. "So," I sounded raw, had to clear my throat and scrubbed at my face with my sleeve 'cos the friggin' smoke curled right into my eyes then, "wanna know how it is." I'm good at parroting.

He regarded me, unsure. "It hurts that much?"

Why did he have the knack to make me breathless every time he jabbed home with one of those remarks? Prod, jab, thrust, touche. Easy. Offhandedly. It stung, badly. Just how much time did he spend watching US while we believed we were watching HIM? And how damn lucid is he, Aya-not-so-clueless or innocent? Or did he merely have uncanny instincts? Either way, it was wrong. All of it. I could feel it in my guts that were churning madly with a mix of sensations I didn't even want to begin to explore. There, analyse that, Kudoh, you're used to it, leftover from your old job, your old life, but no, pretending to be blind and dumb suits you just fine now, doesn't it.

"Yohji, you need to breathe."

And hell had me because he cracked a joke, as dry as cinder, and I sucked in air with a gasp like a drowning man and quirked a grin, wide, false and cheerful. "Man, Ayan, you make me laugh."

"That appears to be my job in this team," he snitted, "to be the butt of everyone's jokes, and seeing that you are coming up with most of them..."

I had been teasing him, but only to unbalance him a little, to help him mellow and settle in. I tried a shrug, glad that it came out smooth and nonchalant. "Gotta do something with you, Ayan." Never mind what I would really have liked to do with him then, and I was ashamed and heated by the images my stupid mind shoved into my consciousness.

Redhead was not amused. "Fuck you."

Cussing did not sound right from his mouth, from these thin, unsmiling lips, but he could do it, like an old salt. Where had he learned it? I dropped some ash onto the spent polishing rag in the bin. Stared at him, grin in place. "Well, I'd let you but in your case, it comes with strings."

Silence. He looked stunned, forgetting for a heartbeat his guarded ways, his eyes growing wide, then narrow. This was one step too far, Kudoh, I chided myself, one shade too bold, this was Aya, you don't talk like that to Aya 'cos he can gut you if he feels like it, and making a blatant pass at him might just qualify as something that pushes him that tiny bit too hard. More godawful silence. I knew damn well I dressed up what I wanted with another joke, made it sound light, playful, yeah, I'm good at that until I believe myself, but really, all his little hints, hadn't they prepared the ground?

Suddenly, I needed to know, so to hell with it; I let the remark hang, the silence stretch and grow thick around us. To imagine having him... So vivid... So harsh he'd cut me like his blade might cut, so pretty and so sad... To kiss those mirthless lips until they flushed pink and coax a smile out of them... I had to swallow a groan that instead chose to vibrate down between my legs, but there was also this burning inside my chest that was different from anything I'd found in the clubs or in the arms of strangers. It reminded me of Asuka, and I realised with a shock that, earlier, he had made me weep.

I wanted to make him smile. Laugh, perhaps. Make his pretty cold eyes glaze over with lust and love.

Love.  
I could show him that we were not dead yet.  
I could show him how to love. And perhaps, I could love someone again, even though he had nothing to remind me of her, and he was a guy.

"You-" He swallowed hard, pressed his lips together in a hard line and took a long, slow breath through his nose before saying, "You make everthing sound like a joke. Even that."

Shit, no. No-no-no-no, this was NOT happening. I was not joking, not at all.

He sat very still, holding my gaze with those distant, guarded eyes, shielded behind those cursed purple contacts. "It ever occurred to you that's why I can't..."

Loads of ellipses. I hadn't realised that Aya was a master of the ellipsis. He faltered again, but only to strengthen his resolve. "It would never work, Yohji. Even if I could make you stop, it wouldn't be you anymore."

And that's why I couldn't have him. Couldn't own him. Couldn't fall so bloody hard for him that it hurt like hell already, good grief, this was SO not happening, not to Kudoh the Flirt, who'd been playing this kind of game longer than he cares to remember. I should have known better than that: blokes are for fucking, girls for loving. Where did Aya come in?

No, this is not what happens to me.

And Aya looked at me with this odd expression in his eyes, so cold, so hard, so pained, and I forgot myself and leaned towards him, closed my eyes and kissed his lips. I was ready to die.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Truth

1) see 'Finding Stillness' for why Yohji owes Aya


	11. Chapter 11 Truth

**Truth**

"Aya..." And just what could I tell him? That I wanted to bed him? Taste him? Love him? Heaven forbid. Or perhaps that I could change, for his sake, but that would be a lie. I know myself too well. The cigarette was down to the filter, I had to get rid of it and he had no ashtray in his room. So I got up, and yeah, I had to hurry or I'd stand the girl up; I don't do that sort of thing 'cos it's crass. "Gotta go now."

"Yohji." He rose and offered me the lid of the jar. "What? Snuff that damn fag already."

"I need to go, Aya." I needed to go because he made me dizzy, and I had a date.

"Yohji!"

His tone held something else now, a twang of despair perhaps that made me pause and look back over my shoulder. A storm was blowing over his face, it was painful even to watch him struggle with himself. So I stopped, my hand on the doorknob, and waited.

"I want… I can't…"

"Want me to do it 'cos you thought it's easy that way," I said, watching him wince. "'Cos you can't ask the chibis, and I'm just-"

"No! That's not… I mean, that's not all!"

Oh. I lit up again. Smoking too much, Kudoh, gives you lung cancer, though you're probably be dead 'fore it can catch you.

"I want it to be you," he breathed, turning a furious crimson, but to his credit, he kept glaring at me. I hate purple contacts. They just had to be contacts, with that dead sheen and this impossible colour. I wondered what his real eye colour might be, or his true hair colour for that matter… Aya was all about masking, hiding, holding on tight to so many layers that it was easy to forget there might be something beneath worth a closer look. Or perhaps not. Who knows.

I let go of the doorknob. Suddenly tired of pussyfooting around. Now or never. No way back after this, so move, Kudoh, before you chicken out. "You wanna sleep with me?" Silence. More glaring, small, hard hands fisting by his sides. Katana sheathed under his futon. I would be out quicker than he could grab the damn slicer. "Then say it, Ayan."

Time frozen. Silence. A Noh play of dramatic silence punctuated with sounds. Purple eyes sailing on halfmast, pale lips opening a little, torturously slow, a battle raging beneath the still surface, a tiny gasp, "I…"

"C'mon, Ayan." Intrigued. Hooked. Gonna get hurt. Addicted. I walked back into the room, into his personal space, right up to him – so close, so very close; a thrill ran down my spine and knotted in my crotch, could feel his heat and mine flaring. His eyes flew open and skewered me, he tensed up so much he'd shatter any moment, or break off his own fingers, or … "C'mon, it's not that difficult: I. Like. You. I like you."

He blanched, shuffled about, hands clenching even tighter, knuckles white. I could have bet he had bloody marks where his nails cut into his palms. "I could have pushed you off that roof." Instead of hauling me back and scolding me for being insanely stupid.

True enough, but not good enough. I shook my head, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Ok, his buttons work by force only. A lot of it, and not nice. Not what I'd do by choice.

"Want me to fake it then?" he snapped. Mustering last reserves, attempting to keep control, somehow, of something he couldn't control any longer because he wanted, he longed, he yearned…

"You wouldn't."

Colour flushing back into his face in a wild flood. "If you know, why say it?"

He did not deny it. Press, Kudoh, push, nudge. Play the high card, gamble, it's all or nothing, remember? Too late, way too late for anything in between. "'Cos I need to hear it. I'm that type, Ayan, always a sucker for pretty things. Pretty pictures, pretty touches, pretty words."

His mouth fell open, then snapped shut. He went to his futon and knelt, hands in his lap. Katana close. Hands still clenched to fists. I went after him, sank into a crouch opposite him and looked him into the eye. Could feel the damn knife press against my shins beneath the mattress. He bit his lip, he would bleed if he kept digging his sharp little teeth into the soft flesh, and I thumbed over his mouth to soothe the swelling. He jerked back, anger and panic flashing over his face like lightning, but still no attempt to reach the fuckin' sword.

Yukata gaping open over his chest, white skin, pearly scars, a dusky pink nipple, the hollow beneath his throat where my fingers had nearly squashed the life out of him, the faint red line where my wire…

"I…" He drew a deep breath, holding my gaze, and spluttered, "Like you. I like you, here you have it." And fell silent again, resentment showing all too clearly in the harsh line of his mouth as he awaited my reaction. He was not in control here, I had taken care of that. He hated me for it, and he wanted me for it 'cos he wanted to let go and couldn't, I had to wrench it off him, fight him tooth and nail so he could give up his damn restraint for once and just be, without feeling guilty. He thought I could do just that for him, that I was a match for his temper and his rage and everything he hated and wanted. I should have felt flattered.

No, I didn't smile, he'd feel more defeated than he was, and it would all go to hell. So I got up, trying to keep my decorum by hiding my hard-on under my baggy tee, and nonchalantly dug for my fags. "I like you too, Ayan. A lot."

He was perplexed again. He hurt. He looked as though he'd start screaming any moment, so I thought it better to leave him to stew and mull it all over. "When?" I asked.

And it was his turn to be blunt and put me out 'cos he said flatly, "Now. I want you now."

I swallowed a gulp of smoke; don't cough, don't fluster… hell, and don't come in your friggin' pants. "Need to clean up first," I tried, but he jumped to his feet, those firm, small feet that could step through katas swifter than you could look, feet that could deliver kicks that have your guts hang out. Now they looked like small white birds.

Glaring down at me, he shook his head. "No. Now."

"But I was out last night," I said, feeling my resolve fade and a shade of panic rise inside me – I had been out, I could still taste the residue of booze and grass and someone else. I would have to go to my room for some lube and for some of those little rubber sheaths to protect him for he could not possibly have any of that stuff, not Aya-

"I don't care." He bent and flipped over his pillow. Lube. No condoms. He. Was. No. Innocent. He knew. Things. Now, why should that have thrown me? I knew about a lot of things at a much younger age.

"I've done my homework. Read up on a few things. I know how I function. And I don't want rubber."

Good grief! "But Aya-" Discomfort began to creep up on me. Perhaps he wanted me like this so he could tell himself I'm just a cheap hoor. And I had meant to go out again, after all I had a date.

"Or am I just a job for you?" he bit out. "I've showered, and I won't need the bathroom anytime soon."

Now, did I get this right: professionals do the whole hog. Shower, cleaning out backside, lube up, condoms, the lot. People who are cool enough to take an hour to textbook prep themselves and plan ahead, or who need the detachment. No, Aya didn't want me like that. Even shunned my trusty little latex friends. He wanted me barebacked, and what did he say about the bathroom? He wanted me inside him.

Good grief. Did he trust me that far, or was he just clueless, reckless, idiotic? Now, Kudoh, I told myself, process that, slowly please, ignoring the throbbing down there between your legs: if you love and if you're hot, you don't care all that much about most of that stuff. Me and Asuka… she did this sometimes to pleasure me, with her fingers up my rear while she was doing things to my dick with this sweet mouth of hers, and sometimes she liked it when I returned the favour and took her that way-

Now why did this whole thing make me go dizzy, it shouldn't matter all that much, now should it, I was in control there, yes, I was. "Aya, I…"

"Tell me about her."

That was abrupt. Smoke, more smoke, lots of it to veil my face, to laugh and shrug and then bite my tongue against the heat that stings my eyes so suddenly. "I… I find that difficult."

"We have time. I asked Omi to change our shifts around tomorrow. We can take as long as we like."

Yes, I was in control, most definitely. And I had a date. Still a little time, if I skimped a bit on grooming. Redhead settled back on his futon, scuffled around to make room by his side, and smoothed out the sheets. Snowy white, his hand a pale shadow on the linens, the wide sleeve of the yukata a wing of darkness sweeping after it. "If you'd care to keep me company for a little longer?"

So I sat down closer to him, on his crisp white sheets. Could smell him, sharp and spicy, even over my fag, and sense his warmth. I wanted him. I wanted him so bad it made me shake.

He wrinkled his nose a bit at my cigarette, but decided to ignore it as he had done all evening. How odd. "Did you love her?"

Truth. We had to start this, whatever it was we were about to start, with the truth. Sometimes, the truth isn't the best thing to start with, but that didn't apply here. Here it mattered. "Still do," I managed around a mouthful of smoke. "That doesn't mean there'd be no room for someone else."

He slanted me a sideways glance, said nothing. Should I have explained?

"I wanna live, Ayan. There's nothing wrong with that. I know she wouldn't begrudge me a bit of living, and we only have once chance." Why did it matter? I could just have complied, laid him and given him a good one. So he would know how things work between two blokes.

"You make it sound so simple." He leaned against me, warm, solid, somehow familiar. As though I'd awaited, imagined, always felt this touch. "Everything seems simple for you, Yohji."

"But it is."

He hung his head. "Perhaps."

He was not convinced. In his mind, nothing was simple, he was always running ahead a few steps and didn't stop to think properly. That his parents who had loved him would not want him to waste his life trying to get himself killed. That his sister would not mind him going out to have some fun, or seeking some warmth in someone's bed, or finding some pleasure all for himself.

His hand stole onto my thigh and rested there. It felt hot, no cool, hell, I didn't know, it felt hard and longing and damn good as his fingertips pressed tentatively into my flesh, and my body hadn't forgotten it had a hard-on earlier before he shocked me a bit with this business attitude of his.

"Yohji?" I'm taller than him. He tilted his head back a bit so he could gleam at me from beneath ragged red bangs.

"I'm not in the mood now." It slipped out a lot rougher than I meant it, and he pulled back. No, I was not in my right mind. I needed a break to scrape my wits together, and rather urgently before I started doing what he wanted me to do, and couldn't stop myself much longer...

He raised his eyebrows. He could convey a world of words with a tiny gesture. I saw the glint in his eyes and misread it. I shifted, and he sagged back into me, his hair tickling my cheek, his breath soft and warm on my neck. Since when did my dick respond to someone breathing down my neck? I needed that break NOW. "Mood, Aya? You know-"

"Like… candles and stuff?" He turned, twisting, making it an embrace by sneaking his arm round my waist even as mine came to rest across his shoulderblades. He pressed closer still; I could feel his chest against mine, his small, hard nipples through a couple of layers of cotton that were the only barrier between his skin and mine. "You wanna date me?" he murmured.

That click in his voice, was that amusement? Barely suppressed laughter? Watch out, Kudoh, here he goes... and to hell with caution. High stakes equal high risks. "Yeah, that, with good food and music and a shower together, the lot, yanno. You think I stand to attention all that time, and that I'd just do you now so it's over and done with? Why don't you use a dildo?"

He stiffened a bit, but didn't budge. "Ok."

What was that? "Ok? You… we have a date then? Or ok, you'll resort to toys?"

He laid his head back against my shoulder and laughed. A deep, croaky sound 'cos his voice was used to yelling and snarling and rasping but not to laughing. "Don't get ideas, Kudoh. If that's what turns you on, fine, we can do those things, I pay, and then you'll fuck me."

I should have known. It was too easy, now was it, and I really should have seen it coming and not felt sick and cold and woozy as I shoved him back and got up. "No, damn you, no. I won't."

And I could still hear him laugh as I lurched from his room, feeling beat and down.

He was one mean fighter.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Lies


	12. Chapter 12 Lies

**Lies**

It is late and I'm getting ready to get sloshed. I dress up and dab on a bit of aftershave, grab a coil of wire just in case, my money and my fags. In black jeans and sleeveless black top, I look good enough; the tattoo on my shoulder shows nicely, SIN, invitation or threat, whatever people wanna read into it. I went out last night, but my date was gone 'cos I lingered too long in his room. So tonight I'll go to the highest bidder if I like him.

If not, I'll take anyone.

Ayaworked the afternoon shift with me as though nothing had happened, but I will be damned if he didn't shoot glances at me when I was busy flirting with the girls. He is not done, I can tell, but I won't have him laugh at me when really all he wants is bedding me. Taste a bit of the forbidden fruit, while being too up his pretty ass to admit it.

He hasn't grasped what I want. Because if I sleep with him, I will want him, all of him, and keep it.

And I am not for sale. Not for him.

Even if he was knocking at my door now and stepping into my room without waiting for me to say 'clear off, I'm not in', with him staying put there by the damn door with his arms folded over his chest and his face white and blank and those friggin' contacts hiding his eyes. He is in jeans and tee for once; I like him better in his yukata with nothing underneath.

"Yohji."

"I'm off for the night, Ayan, come back later."

"Yohji, listen."

"Later, Ayan, later, I got things to do, dates to go, booze to down…"

"Man, Kudoh, will you the hell listen now!"

Oh. He does not swear often, or blush or blaze at me like that, as though it really mattered, and why did he bother in the first place to turn up here, ah, still after my ass then, aren't we persistent, but now I won't, I'm not that cheap…

"I shouldn't have laughed."

Hell has frozen over, my almost-full flagon of aftershave shatters in the small sink in the corner with the mirror and towel rack, and my world is askew. Fujimiya Aya just apologised for laughing. He should be laughing a lot more in fact, just not about me.

"Still wanna do it, hm? Well, I'm not, Aya! I'll go out and fuck whoever, just not you 'cos we gotta work together, and-"

"How much booze have you downed already?" he snipes and steps closer, unfolding his arms.

And I like you. Way too much for my own good, and you were right when you pointed out how dangerous this kind of attraction can be for folk like us. So better stick with old standbys, go out, get pissed, get laid. "Since when does that matter to you? Look, I've been going out before you turned up here, and I don't see why I shouldn't keep going out now, besides, you can take care of yourself 'cos you know enough 'bout the whole shit."

A brief silence, and something is trying to wriggle its way into my conscious mind, but I'm fogged up from a few of those colourful little capsules I bought from my latest buddy at one of those bars where you can pick up that sorta stuff. Therefore, I can think but not connect.

"Hai, enough," he says, sounding oddly off. "I didn't think a night of Go would be attractive enough to keep you in."

What? He has a plan, I can tell, but… Go? "I'm not good at it."

"Because you have no patience," he admonishes, eyes resting on me with that blank stare of purple lenses. "I could teach you."

"I'd just lose anyway."

"Oh? And here I thought you'd like a challenge."

He is goading me like a small boy, and damn, I'm about to plunge for the bait even if I can see it for what it is. Spending a night with him – playing Go? Well, whatever, as long-

"I wouldn't try anything," he says as though reading my thoughts, and his tone is a bit… almost… somehow rueful. "But if you dislike the idea, perhaps you could forget I asked. And I am sorry if my request earlier insulted you." He draws a deep breath. "Well, then… have a good night."

We're playing our own little game here, and hell, did I ever think I was in control? He is running the show, no doubt, stepping through his katas with me, and before I know it, I'll be down and out if I'm not careful here, watch out Kudoh.

"Just…"

"Yes?" My tongue, running away again.

"Why," a long, awkward pause as he summons the right words and the panache to say them out loud – he's better at silence or yelling – and then, "why everyone else?"

"'Cos they don't friggin' matter!" I had too much of that stuff. Those little pills. Cheap sake, from under the pile of unwashed clothes in a corner by my bed. Smokes. Pot. I had it all tonight even before making a move.

He retreats to the wall, gropes for the door, his eyes blank and purple and wide, if I only could look behind those damn lenses, behind that cold mask of his. But he won't let me, never mind that he collected me from the park where I had collapsed, drunk and out of it, and dragged me back to the Koneko, or that he caught me when I was pissed and dancing at the ledge of the roof in memory of Asuka. Or that he tried to tell me something by placing a white orchid onto my bookshelf. Aya works with flowers and his sword, thorough at both, he's bad at words, and he does not do sappy. That flower was easier for him than words. He won't open up, and I know that if I do, I'm gonna get hurt. Bad. So he can't have me. And I can't have him. Simple.

"I'm gonna go out, Ayan, and you won't spoil it for me, and I'm gonna have fun." Yeah.

And he turns the doorknob and edges out, his face almost ashen now as he says, so quietly that I can hardly hear him, "Hai. You're good at that."

The door clicks shut.  
He really ruined it for me.

**xxx**

Next chapter: Resolution


	13. Chapter 13 Resolution

**Resolution **

So why do I rap his door now, after we have just settled from our latest mission? He was in a haze of bloodlust and fire and smoke, murderous and spiteful, hacking his way out of the place in spite of Omi's yelling through the earpiece. Afterwards, barely back at the Koneko, they had 'a talk' – Omi hauled him into the mission room without delay, with both of them stinking of fire and gore – and I won't be Kudoh the Flirt if Aya hasn't a fat black mark on his Kritiker file by now.

Aya wanted to hurt and get hurt last night, and he was prepared to drag all of us in with him.

He doesn't answer my rapping and scraping. "Hey, Ayan?"

Silence, the soft sloshing of water, the shuffling of feet. He is in his room, at least. "Aya, I'm not gonna go away 'til you open that damn door."

"What do you want?" His voice is muffled and flat.

I cannot answer that. Not by saying I want to make sure he is fine, that he has no injuries beyond a few bruises and minor cuts, that he is not hungry or aching...

The door flies open so suddenly that I can only burst back into the hallway when he appears in the gap, a towel wrapped round his head. He holds the doorknob with one hand, and keeps rubbing his hair dry with the other. His eyes are cool and alert as he runs his gaze over me, appraising and a bit calculating. "Come in," he orders and disappears from the door.

On the makeshift altar burn incense sticks amid a scattering of origami shapes. As I draw the door shut behind me, he pulls the towel off his hair, and I can only gape for his hair is not red anymore but dark brown, almost black. On the sideboard by the window stand a bowl and pitcher, the water in the bowl turgid, the towel spread neatly underneath is soaked with rusty red stains. A small container with purple contacts sits next to the pitcher. (1)

Aya turns to me and meets my eyes. "Now you know," he merely says, in an oddly neutral voice. Without the wild crimson and the brilliant purple, his face is pure and serene. In nothing but his yukata, he looks slight and innocent and years younger than his true age. "Do you still want me?"

His eyes are grey-blue, like a dusky summer sky. His hair is still damp and a bit tousled, clinging softly to his temples and cheeks. He looks at me when he simply slips the yukata off and lets it drop by his feet. He is himself. No false colours, no earring to remind him of his burden, no layers of protective clothing. No more hiding. He is naked and bare and willing to be mine.

I don't want to look down at him when I answer, so I kneel before him and wrap my arms round his knees. Just in case. I look up, he looks down. It feels right that way. He is reassured, and laces his hands into my hair,a tiny smile in the corners of his mouth.

"Hai, Ayan. I still want you."

"Ran," he says, his tone almost soft, "I am Ran."

I should be happy. Smug. Something like that.

Instead, something wrenches at my heart hard enough to make me breathless with pain. "Ran," against his warm skin. "Ran."

He is not hard. I kiss his thigh, just once, and feel a tremor run through him. I look up again, he glances down, intently, his lips parted, his breathing light, shallow. Expectant and nervous, even though he'd rather die than to admit this.

"Yohji, I... it won't come up," he says, rather embarrassed, a blush staining his cheeks.

Ok, so I was wrong again. He does admit it, and it doesn't kill him. As though he had not only shed his colours, but Aya (2) altogether. "Then let it be," I tell him. Another kiss, a bit closer to his crotch. Warm, velvety flesh snuggled into a nest of dark hairs, wiry and curly. My hair tickles the sensitive inside of his thighs, I can tell because goosebumps dimple his skin, and he fidgets the tiniest bit. Taste his skin down there, make him jump a little when my tongue touches him there.

We slept with one another that night. I kissed him until he was hard. Not difficult for he was starved for touch and hungry for passion. He refused to take me first; instead he let me in without pain – I could feel him willing his body to relax as I slid between his drawn-up thighs and kissed him deeply while making him slick, then pushed in gently. He was eager and fast, and when we were done, he turned away, angled his arm over his face and let out a few dejected little sobs. No tears, no drama, just dry small sounds of utter defeat.

It shocked me enough to roll off him, chilled out of my hazy afterglow. I knew better than to ask, but I refused to let him slide away from me without at least trying to hold on; so I pulled myself close to him and tugged the blanket over us, my hand slipping underneath to rest on his waist, and my face touching his hair.

"Aya... Ran."

The pulse at his neck where I nearly cut his life off.

"Ran?" Kiss him there, savouring salty skin, pine needles, steel and heat.

"Yoh... Yohji..."

More ellipses. Too many of them in our lives that are riddled with blood and death. When we chose not to cope, or plainly lose the plot, we write another ellipsis into our existence. Petting his hair feels good. Fitting myself against the rounding of his spine feels great, my nether regions pressing against his trim backside, feeling the dampness of what we've just done, and I grow hot inside just replaying it in my mind.

"Yohji, am I your trophy now?" The wild kid tamed? Storm contained? Tide stopped?

"Like I'm yours?" The chronic flirt settled? Sunshine boxed? Freedom shackled?

"I do not collect."

That hurt. I have to see his face now, so I tug at his arm. "Ran?"

He relents and half turns onto his back, shoulder digging into my chest. His eyes narrow and shaded, his expression collected, no tears. He cannot cry. "So?" he says, quietly.

"I want you, no matter what you call yourself – Aya, Ran, Fuji, Abyssinian – I don't care, 'cos I love you. 'Cos I want you."

"And what exactly, Yohji, do I get in return?"

Testing. He is always poking, mistrusting, insecure, angry and lost. Testing. "You get me, baby. Full on."

"All of you?" He has an odd way of putting things.

"Yeah, the lot if you can handle it."

"Ah." He is thinking, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. Studying the pattern of cracks in the rendering and the flakes of white paint thatwill drizzle down when Omi plays his heavy metal stuff at full blast. My place is the same. "How long is forever?" he wonders aloud, his voice floating, strangely disembodied though I can feel it vibrate deep in his chest. He should think less, it tends to screw the simplest thing for him 'cos his mind is twisted by grief.

"As long as I'll love you," I tell him.

"Love me," he murmurs, the tension draining from his body that sags into mine. I pull the comforter upover our shoulders. I could do with a cigarette now, and it is a bit chill in his room.

But he is falling asleep, his face relaxing, his breathing deepening and slowing, and I feel content. Don't need the fag after all. And he warms me.

Through the slits in the bamboo blind gleams light.  
I want to believe it is a star.

Forever.  
Just how long does it really last?

**xxx**

**The End**

1) for more detail on what happens here, see 'Winding Down – Transformation' and its sequels  
2) woven of silk, or colourful – possible interpretations of Aya's name; Ran is also a female name


End file.
